Gossip Makes the World Go Round
by BrokenFaerie16
Summary: Lizzie is a poor journalist, desperately trying to struggle out of the shackles of the Gossip Mag world. Darcy is a rich, stuck-up lawyer defending rich and stuck-up celebrities. Will love conquer all, or will pride and prejudice get in the way? Modern PP
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Ok, firstly I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed my first story (coming up for 600 hits!) – I know everybody says it, but all your comments meant a lot to me. I don't actually let anyone close to me read what I write, guess I'm too afraid of what they'll say; so just the fact that I got hits sent me into a major high for about a week! And the reviews were just amazing!

Moving on, this is one of five new stories I'm working on, (three Jane Austen and two Tamora Pierce). Really hoping that I can get updates out fairly regularly, but school is manic what with applying to Uni, being head of fundraising for our Leaver's Ball and all my wonderful essays :/ So for any delays I hope you'll forgive me. Umm, that's about it, hope you like this – reviews always welcome, just please be nice, I'm fragile lol. Just a quick warning, the characters may be a little OOC at times, but I think you need that for a well rounded MODERN story; something a little different sparks the imagination! So please, don't email me saying if they are, it's the way its intended – but I will, of course, try my best not to stray 

**Disclaimer: ** Owing to my lack of beautiful Regency dresses, I must confess I'm not Jane Austen; I'm just...borrowing! Also, don't own any ideas I may have pinched and tweaked from films etc.

**Prologue**

"Gee!!! What are you doing?"

The girl's giggling squeal broke the calm of the countryside as a red MG convertible sped through the lanes, hedges and plant life flashing by in a blur of colour.

"What? Don't you like it honey? I thought all girls liked a fast car?!?" he mocked.

Taking one hand off the wheel, the man stretched over and traced the back of her neck lightly with his finger, playing lazily with the wisps of wavy blonde hair that had escaped her bun in the breeze. She shivered agreeably as the car's speed continued to increase.

"George, please, it's too fast!" Starting to panic now, the girl gripped the edge of her seat. The man only laughed and pressed the accelerator flat to the floor, causing scenery to zoom by even quicker.

"Come on sweetheart, don't be scared. You know I would never hurt you, I'm in complete control. Cheer up cherub, sweetums, poppet, ma petite chou..."

"You're drunk," she spat in disgust. "I want to get out, stop the car. George, stop the car!" But he made no move to slow down. Snatching his hand back, George gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Don't be such a baby Gia." His voice was no longer soft and melodical, but harsh and slightly slurred.

The girl was now crying, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

"Please, George, stop. Please!"

Shaking his head furiously, he yanked the wheel hard as the narrow country lane began to curve. However, the bend didn't stop. Desperately pulling on the wheel and slamming the brakes, he tried in vain to get the car round safely.

They were going too fast.

Gia screamed as the back of the car swung wide from the momentum and it crashed through the fence at the side of the road. Grass and shrubs came rushing up to meet them as the MG careered through the field.

She saw the tree before they hit it, directly in their path and looking very imposing, but it didn't seem to register. There was a loud crash and she was thrown forwards violently in her seat.

The last thing she heard was shouting in the far distance and a groan beside her before everything went black.

**Author's Note: **Well, that was the first part. Don't worry, the rest of the chapters will be longer, I promise. Please let me know what you think  BTW _ma petite chou_ means "my small cabbage" – just something our French teacher used to call us lol.


	2. Mission from the Bitch

**Author's Note: **Sorry its sososo late, life has been...difficult. Illnesses, stress, organising Ball, stress, A-Level exams, stress, Uni plans, stress – it all adds up to time not spent writing. In fact, I had to go to the pub to get this finished (at least that's what I told everyone lol). Anyhoo, I hope this sort of makes up for it :S

Oooh yeah, I have some pictures of outfits and the like on my webpage – link to that is on my profile, take a peak! ^o^

* * *

**Chapter one: Mission from 'The Bitch'**

The sound of a phone vibrating awoke the slumbering heap that was Elizabeth Bennet.

Without lifting her head from the pillow, she flapped her hand around until her fingertips connected with the annoying piece of technology that had just ruined a perfectly good dream; one which involved the man from the Aero's advert conveniently dropping his towel at a crucial moment during filming.

Jabbing buttons randomly and hoping for the best, Lizzie pressed the phone in the vague direction of her ear.

"'Lo?" She mumbled.

"You'd better have a good excuse babe," was the cheerful voice that greeted her from the other end.

"Char? Is tha' you?"

"Uh huh, and for the love of God I hope the Bitch is in a forgiving mood; for your sake at least. Do you _have _a death wish?"

"Why? What time is it?" Rolling over onto her back, pushing tangles of hair out of her eyes, Lizzie searched for her alarm clock. Locating it under a discarded sock, she focused on the display. 9.17am.

"Shit!" Sitting up in bed violently, Lizzie was now most definitely awake. "There's no way I can get there on time. Charlotte, what am I going to do?" Flinging the bed covers off and onto the floor, she darted to the bathroom.

"Liz, calm down, I'm in a taxi ten minutes away. Get your arse dressed; make sure you are _actually_ decent today, remember the Bitch wants your presence so wear something nice. I'll meet you outside." Hearing Lizzie groan, Charlotte chuckled. "I'll even bring coffee and breakfast."

The sound of running water and a toothbrush buzzing met Charlotte Lucas's last statement. Holding the phone away from her as she spat into the sink, Lizzie rinsed her mouth before replying.

"Charlie you are an angel; have I ever told you how much I love you?"

"Once or twice, but you're always welcome to elaborate. Right, I've got to go. Remember, wear something that _appears_ like it's been ironed and make sure it doesn't look like you found it in a charity shop."

Rolling her eyes at her best friend's antics, Lizzie pulled a brush through her hair, desperately attempting to tame the wild waves of chestnut brown locks.

"Ok, I'll be good, I promise! See you in a few." And with that, she hung up. Grabbing her make-up bag, Lizzie swept mascara, a touch of blush and a dab of lip gloss across her symmetrical features.

Taking the bag and phone with her, Lizzie walked back to her room. After a brief confrontation with a pair of thick black tights (which seems to have one fewer holes than she did legs), she pulled a grey sweater dress over her head and went in search of accessories. Finding her black belt behind a cushion on the sofa, Elizabeth clipped it around her tiny waist hurriedly then threw on a necklace made of heavy black and silver beads.

Snatching a black bag to match, Lizzie dropped her phone, make-up and purse into it, before picking up a folder and making her way to the door. Rummaging through the coat closet, she selected her favourite black stilettos and slung them under one arm. Carefully balancing everything, she plucked a bunch of keys out of the bowl on the table and proceeded to back out of the apartment. After kicking the door gently to make sure it shut, Lizzie dashed down the corridor to the stairs, no way would the lift get her down there in time – much too old and decrepit.

Bare-footed, she took the stairs two at a time down the four floors until she emerged, gasping for breath, in the entrance hall. Lizzie sprinted to the big glass doors, and was rescued from her failing attempts to escape by Fred, the frail old doorman, who had surely been here since the tatty old apartment block had been built, back in 1910. She flashed him a smile of gratitude before stumbling out the open door, possessions in hand, blinking in the bright sunlight.

Charlotte wasn't there yet; with a sigh of relief Lizzie sunk down onto the marble steps and pulled on her shoes.

This was not how she had pictured the day going; _her_ version had a lot more sleeping involved, then a pyjama day in front of the TV with a big tub of Ben and Jerry's. Perfect jetlag cure.

Trust the Bitch to demand a meeting for all staff the day Lizzie got back from one of _the _most excruciating interview trips ever.

Burying her head in her hands, Lizzie thought back over the past five days. She had arrived in New York fresh faced and ready to do battle with anyone – even the celebrities she was meant to be seeing. But just two days in Lizzie felt like she had been run over by a train. Up till that point, the trip had been an utter nightmare and was becoming increasingly worse every second; Lizzie was _supposed_ to be interviewing the main stars in a new movie that was due out later that week, yet at every point there seemed to have been complications with a schedule that had been planned months previously.

Suddenly the leading lady had a facial appointment that she simply _had_ to attend before she walked the red carpet on Friday, meaning that Lizzie's vital interview was pushed back and cut down. The main man, although completely gorgeous (enough so to rival even the Aero man), was entirely inept at stringing more than two words together if they weren't scripted before him; and the supporting cast seemed to have a big enough chip on their collective shoulder about not being interviewed sooner to wholly ruin any attempts at decent journalism on Lizzie's part.

All in all, the article was hanging by a thread. In a last minute attempt to salvage the wreckage, of what admittedly could have been quite a good story, Lizzie and her photographer decided to crash the red carpet event.

After spending a good three hours in the rain waiting, Lizzie and the camera man, Paul, were finally treated to a glimpse of the stars in all their finery stepping out of a perfectly polished car onto the red carpet, whilst a burly monkey in a tux held an umbrella above their flawlessly coifed locks and, in a totally unsubtle manner, attempted to get in the pictures.

Under strict instructions from Lizzie, Paul began snapping away happily at everything and everyone in the vicinity – the stars that were prancing up and down the carpet, the fans screaming their little hearts out whilst 'Oaf Man' attempted to sign his name on the little bits of paper they were waving at him, even the security guards, doing their best "I'm important too" act with the dark glasses and headsets, got a look-in. Lizzie on the other hand, was impatiently jumping up and down, trying frantically to get the attention of someone vaguely important to say a quick word; who they were wearing, what their hopes for the film/future were blah blah blah. _Anything_ that she could whisk up into a small semblance of an article.

Two hours and three rolls of film later had seen Lizzie and Paul back at their hotel, surrounded by laptops, cameras and film equipment. The next day and a half was spent in an ever mounting pile of take-out boxes and coffee mugs, as the pair fought to squeeze a double page spread out of the meagre resources. In the end they had opted for a short section of interviews – complete with head-shots (to take up space), a couple of boxes of talk from the premier and a major splurge of pictures from the red carpet. As an effort to appease their boss (and the word count she'd set out), Lizzie and Paul had included two-liners for each of the photos; where they'd got the outfit, any comments they'd made about it and whether it was a fashion no-no in general.

By Sunday evening, the piece was ultimately finished and with half an hour to spare the duo had dragged themselves, and their luggage, to the airport where they all but crawled on to the waiting jumbo jet.

Following a painful eight hour flight, filled with the snores and complaining of 400-odd passengers, Lizzie and Paul said an uninspired farewell and each climbed into a taxi.

She'd reached the wonderful haven that was her bed at around three am. Gratefully sinking into its cool sheets and promising herself that never, no matter what happened, would she ever get up again, Elizabeth fell asleep almost instantly.

Yet here she was, a mere six and a half hours later, lingering on the front steps of her building as she waited for the blessing that was Charlotte Lucas to arrive with the much needed instalment of coffee.

The rumble of an engine preceded the car as it drove round the corner and slowed to a stop before Lizzie. She didn't even attempt to lift her head at the sound of the car door opening; it had become much too heavy for her tired body to hold, and she felt the only way to avoid total decapitation was to sit here with it propped in her hands until such time as her body recuperated, or someone was good enough to kill her – whichever came first really, and this being a particularly dodgy area of Central London with a penchant for knife crimes, meant pretty even stakes.

Heels clicking across the concrete still didn't help to stir up enough energy for the whole head-lifting process and Lizzie found herself sincerely hoping that this was, in fact, Charlotte and not some random person with a machete. Then again, was a person wielding a machete likely to be wearing high heels? That would definitely reduce running-away-from-crime-scene-ability and probably bring quite a lot of attention from other people due to the noise. However, Lizzie then remembered the car, and the apparent droning of a nearby engine seemed to concur with the thought that it was waiting for the Charlotte/machete-armed-maniac; and that if, by a really bad bit of luck, it was the latter, they would mostly likely be able to make a quick and relatively quiet getaway, meaning that the fact they were wearing high heels would have no disadvantage for their plan of murder.

The feeling of a pair of soft, cool hands wrapped around her wrists, gently tugging her upwards, roused Lizzie from her internal, and slightly confusing, debate. Suddenly she found herself standing, eyes still closed. This was, Lizzie reflected, probably not the best way to greet a murderer _or_ your best friend – opening her eyes now seemed to be the way to go, but for the moment they appeared to be glued shut. And not with any normal glue either; this degree of immobility only occurred after one had had an accident with the genius invention that was UHU glue, the glue that could not only secure wood, metals and fabrics but could stick skin, eyelashes, fingers, toes, even entire limbs together.

One of the hands relinquished its hold on Lizzie's wrists but returned seconds later to push something into her tired grip. A familiar and very welcome scent reached Lizzie's nostrils and her grasp instinctively tightened.

Elizabeth brought the cup up to her face and breathed in the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Cracking one eyelid open, she was met with the face of her best friend peering anxiously back at her.

"You ok sweet?" Char asked.

"Mhmm..." was Lizzie's only reply as she proceeded to sip hesitantly at the scorching drink.

"Right then, get in, we might just make it in time. I phoned Maria and asked her to stall the Bitch for as long as possible, told her to compliment her shoes or something – and if worst comes to worst, Maria's under strict instructions to ask how her holiday went, you know she can't stop talking about it; I figured that would give us an extra twenty minutes at least." Charlotte moved towards her again and held onto her elbow as she shuffled into the back of the waiting black cab.

Lizzie could feel the coffee working it's magic on her mind and body as she sat in the taxi; slowly, very slowly, as if her whole being was thawing out after getting stuck in an ice cube, Lizzie's thought process became less jumbled and strained, her movements less jerky, and she could distinctly pick out the argument ensuing between Charlotte and the driver.

"Trust me love, I've been doing this job for twelve years, I know the best routes around the city." The man was clearly starting to get irritated now; Lizzie could see his eyes narrowing and the pout on his lips in the rear-view mirror.

"So what happened to 'the customer is always right' huh?" Char turned to Lizzie for support, but not wanting to get involved in anything that concerned thinking at this precise moment, she was staring out at the street, watching the early morning shoppers stopping to point at the displays in windows before wandering aimlessly inside.

Seemingly admitting defeat, Char slumped into her seat, tilting her head back to prop it on the head restraint. She let out a long, laborious sigh before turning her head in Lizzie's direction.

"How was America? I hear the leading man was delicious!"

"Yes, well I personally think God gave that man good looks as a 'sorry' present for missing his brain" said Elizabeth irritably.

"Oh dear," chuckled Charlotte, "not much going on up-top then?"

"Absolutely fuck all! Char, the interview was like trying to get blood out of a stone. I'm just glad that it's a written piece and not filmed – at least Paul and I could make an attempt to salvage it with our quick wit." Her eyes turned mischievous as she spoke, her lips parting to reveal a set of perfectly straight, white teeth.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes, "Am I to understand that by 'quick wit', you really mean you completely broke whatever rules the Bitch gave you and made up an entirely different article?"

Lizzie gave a mock sigh, "You know Char, sometimes I really feel that you don't trust me. Is that something you could honestly see me doing? Directly disobeying orders from above?"

"Yes" Char replied, her face serious except for the amused glint in her hazel green eyes.

"Lies! All of it lies!" laughed Elizabeth.

Wrapped up in their conversation, the girls were surprised when the taxi came to an abrupt halt. Looking up they were met with the gleaming tower of glass and steel that was the headquarters of 'Fashion Weekly' magazine – the UK's current bestselling fashion and gossip rag.

As Charlotte thrust a fistful of notes to the driver, Lizzie gathered their bags and the breakfast things before joining Char on the pavement. They dashed to the massive revolving glass door, cursing its inability to sense the sudden return of their hurry. Finally they made it through, the glass bowl spitting the pair out and into the extravagant foyer.

"Hold that lift!" yelled Charlotte to the pin-stripe clad man as he stepped into the richly decorated booth. They ran towards him, high heels clicking against the marble floor. He caught the doors just before they closed and the girls flung themselves in.

"Thanks" breathed Lizzie.

The man smiled. "Which floor?" he asked, moving closer to the endless lines of brass buttons.

"Twenty-second please" answered Charlotte.

He smiled again.

'_He has a nice smile',_ thought Lizzie. She watched as the man reached out with a large hand to press their button first, before moving upwards to push the button for the tenth floor. _'Ah, that would explain the suit, Legal Management Department.' _

No one round here wore suits; the Bitch would only accept clothes that were the height of fashion – "Lead by example, these poor people need all the help they can get!" was a common phrase from the treasure trove of ignorance that was their editor.

Drifting back into her own thoughts again, Lizzie's eyes scanned the familiar booth of the lift.

Everything about this building screamed at the senses; upon joining the firm, Lizzie had been told that the building was one of the most eye-catching in the city. However, she wasn't sure that her interpretation of the term 'eye-catching' matched with what the person meant. To Lizzie, the place was repugnant, every inch was decorated to the max – the wallpaper was sumptuous and expensive but ill-placed, the carpets were unnaturally thick (which often resulted in one or two people tripping during the day as part of their shoe became tangled in the fibres) and each room appeared to have a theme that was totally disjointed from the previous, thus giving a collection of rooms that clashed violently with each other. It was all over the top, from the high ceilinged, marble and gold atrium to the floral feature walls and bean bags in the meeting room.

She would have preferred it to be kept much simpler; for instance, a continuous but understated colour scheme running throughout would have created a much more flowing atmosphere, and therefore greatly reduced her desire to vomit every time she went into the boudoir styled bathroom that looked as though it could have been pulled fresh out of the Moulin Rouge.

The lift shuddered to a stop and the bell overhead let out a shrill 'ding'. The man turned to Charlotte and Lizzie and gave them a breathtaking grin before nodding and stepping out into the office beyond. The doors slid closed and the lift gave a jolt as it carried on with its journey upwards.

"Lizzie! I can't believe you. He was staring at you the entire time, trying to make eye contact and you just stood there, completely away with the fairies!" Charlotte said, clearly exasperated at Lizzie's lack of observation. "He was cute. You should speak to him, you too would look so good together!" she squealed.

Lizzie groaned loudly, "Char, you know I'm not interested in seeing anyone right now. I just need to concentrate on work for a bit."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Lizzie, all you ever do is work. You're 21 for God's sake – live a little." She looked at her friend and her eyes became serious. Char stepped closer and clutched Lizzie's shoulder. "Seriously Liz, have you even been on a single date since, well, y'know...?" She trailed off uncertainly as Lizzie visibly stiffened beneath her hold.

"Look, I'm sorry," she murmured as Elizabeth turned her head to stare at the ornate, gold leaf wallpaper, "I just don't want to see you like this. It was five years ago; you were young, impressionable – it wasn't your fault! Lizzie, look at me." Grudgingly she did as she was told and Charlotte peered anxiously into her eyes. "You do understand that don't you; it _wasn't_ your fault!"

Elizabeth nodded, somewhat hesitantly; but before Charlotte could broach the subject further, the bell rang once more and the doors swept open to reveal a sight of utter chaos.

Walking out, the girls' furrowed their brows in confusion.

The office was a flurry of activity. People were dashing to and from desks and filing cabinets, haphazardly piling stacks of paper into their arms before staggering to the meeting room.

Charlotte checked her watch. "Hmm, we're only five minutes late, but it doesn't look like Maria had to deploy her sabotage tactics at all. What on earth is going on?"

The sound of hurried footsteps to the side caused the girls to turn. Denny, one of the few men in the department, was approaching them as fast as the loaded trolley he was pushing would allow.

"Oh thank god you two are here. It's been complete pandemonium. Hello magazine has published a piece of gossip so mouth-wateringly scrumptious that it's bound to have the whole country in uproar for weeks, and we completely missed it! Louisa didn't take it well; there was...a slight scene...when she arrived and someone showed her the story. Threw a bit of a hissy fit. Therefore, we poor minions have been dragged off all current projects, other than those already gone to print, and an 'emergency' meeting is taking place instead of the usual meeting."

Char's shoulders visibly slumped and Lizzie groaned. Last time an 'emergency meeting' had been called the result was everyone in the office having to pull an all-nighter. Not that Lizzie particularly minded the occasional all-nighter, it wasn't preferable but sometimes they were just necessary – especially when deadlines were approaching too fast for comfort. No, that wasn't a problem; what was however, was the fact that Lizzie was meant to be attending a party that evening. What made it worse (other than the threat of severe pain from her mother if she didn't go), was the knowledge that her entire family would also be there.

A frown passed across her face at this thought before Charlotte hooked her arm through Lizzie's and proceeded to drag her in between the lines of curved desks, towards a room at the back of the main office.

Pausing at the door to slip off their shoes, the trio entered the meeting room, Denny still wheeling the trolley in front of him.

It had to be said, out of the entire building, this was Lizzie's favourite room. Used only for the morning meeting, and although still over the top, it was by far the one room in the office that was decorated and furnished nicely. The whole room had a symmetrical and precise feel to it, but this was contrasted greatly by the furniture; in any other circumstances, the room would have felt boxy and confined.

As they stepped further into the room, the group was afforded with one of its best features – the view. Directly across from the wall with the door were three, floor to ceiling windows that looked down onto the street below and the small, private garden opposite, eventually giving way to a picturesque view of the city. The wall around the windows was simply whitewashed, as was the wall with the door; however, it was the two end walls that gave the room its character. Each was decorated with an intricate and unique floral pattern; only the outline of the flowers and vines were painted, but the magenta, cyan and dusky pink lines had such an air of vibrancy and life that they really appeared to be growing steadily towards the ceiling. Against the wall through which they entered, was some form of "modern" shelving – it had been incredibly expensive and, as they were informed by Louisa, highly sought after. But to Lizzie, it just looked like a load of cubby-holes with the backs cut out to reveal the white walls behind.

Depositing their shoes into a free box-shelf, the trio took up their usual places in three of the oversized armchairs by the right-hand window.

As they waited for the rest of the staff to settle down and stop flitting about, Lizzie's thoughts drifted towards the night's party. It was not going to be good, this she could tell, nothing involving her three younger sisters and mother could _ever_ go well; as her father put it, "it was the law".

'_Yeah,'_ Lizzie thought to herself, _'Murphy's Law – anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Fact.' _

Kitty and Lydia were too silly for their own good, and it really didn't help that Mrs Bennet indulged them in every whim and fancy. At the tender age of 17, they both looked to have stepped straight out of the latest issue of glamour. Mary was by far the most pleasant out of the triplets, but she hadn't escaped without harm. She was the "serious" one in the family; to an outsider, Mary often looked withdrawn and unsmiling. To Lizzie, however, she was a shy girl, often outshone by her sisters and ignored by her mother; her looks were subtle. Unlike Lydia and Kitty's golden curls and baby blues, Mary's hair was darker than Lizzie's and her features soft, and in Elizabeth's mind she looked much more beautiful than Kit and Ly's attempt at "fitting in with society".

Jane and Lizzie had often discussed the triplets and decided that Mary was by far their favourite, not that you would ever get Jane to admit that. _Jane_. That was the only good thing about this party. Lizzie hadn't seen her in two weeks, possibly the longest time they'd been apart since Jane's first year of university (a university Lizzie had been quick to join the following year, not only because of its high achievements but also for the very welcome distance from the Bennet household).

A quick nudge from Charlotte and a muttered "Look lively" from Denny alerted Elizabeth to the entrance of what appeared to be an overlarge salmon wearing stilettos.

On closer inspection she realised that it was actually Louisa, editor and chief of Fashion Weekly.

She was wearing a knee-length dress that seemed to be made entirely of pink sequins. Her long, platinum blonde hair (dyed, obviously) was scraped back into a severe ponytail making her eyes bulge under the substantial mass of spider-leg-type-things that were pretending to be eyelashes. Lizzie could have laughed, Louisa was one well known in the fashion world for her misguided attempts at 'trend setting' but this was undoubtedly one of her more impaired days. The dress was so tight that Lizzie swore she could see the outline of every internal organ and the hot pink stilettos were positively dangerous; she was getting vertigo just looking at them.

Noticing her open mouth stare, Denny leant across the arm of her chair to whisper, "Someone may have made the suggestion that sequins were going to be this year's beads." He leant back, giving Lizzie a conspiratorial wink making her giggle.

Still framed by the doorway, Louisa cleared her throat harshly, making sure she had the complete attention of her staff before continuing in a sickly sweet voice.

"Good morning family, I hope we are all well." Her eyes roved around the room, taking in the face of every member of staff.

Knowing full well that Louisa had been in a foul mood this morning, everyone blinked in confusion – usually she would have exploded already, spattering the nearest person with spit, before having to lie down on the couch in her darkened office for an hour. The softly-softly approach had never been her strong point; so why was she suddenly so calm?!?

After finishing her sweep of the room, Louisa made her way, tottering slightly on the stilettos, over to the armchair positioned specifically for her in the centre of the flower-wall where she attempted to fold herself gracefully onto the seat. Bobbing along behind her was this month's new personal assistant (yes, they were monthly – Lizzie secretly thought that anyone who managed to be on-call 24/7 to Louisa for four weeks deserved a knighthood ... or an all-expenses-paid trip to the Priory Clinic). The poor woman looked exhausted.

Over the couple of months she'd been there, Lizzie had discovered an uncanny ability to guess, down to the day (and in extreme cases – the hour) how long these PAs had been working at Fashion Weekly.

"Two weeks and six days," she muttered to Charlotte and Denny out of the corner of her mouth as the room at large watched Louisa, who in turn watched the assistant hand out copies of a magazine to each staff member.

"How do you do it?" asked Denny in disbelief. "You're spot on, you sure you aren't some sort of weird-psychic-spirit-rainman-thingy?"

Lizzie chuckled under her breath.

"No, I think you've got me confused with Mary – she's the one into all that voodoo and shit. Besides it's not that hard once you figure it out the first time." When her friends simply looked back at her with that 'lost Labrador' look, heads cocked to one side and brows furrowed, she decided to explain. "Well...it's all in the detail. God that sounded cheesy, but it really is. I mean, look at her," as one, the friends peered in the direction of the frazzled woman who was now cringing whilst picking up the pile of magazines from the floor. "First you've got the basics, her outfit – they always start off smart, trendy, trying to generally kiss-ass by being 'up to date' on the fashion front. Week one equals smart, by the beginning of week two things start to go downhill, week three is just anything that's been ironed or washed recently (and I use that term loosely) and then by week four, it's all hands on deck with anything they can find. Lack of sleep, food, privacy and highly strung nerves will do that to a woman.

"This poor specimen is clearly verging on the end of week three/beginning of week four front – her clothes are clean but it looks like she slept in that blouse, which probably means she fell asleep in her taxi or on the tube this morning. The circles under her eyes indicate that she hasn't slept properly in a long time, but she's not yet wearing that 'I'm going to stab the next person that comes through that door with my nice, sharp pencil' look. Therefore she's about to enter the glorious phase of 'mental murder' before quitting sometime next week." Lizzie grinned innocently as Char and Denny looked on in shock.

"Wow, intense," murmured Charlotte.

"What the fuck is 'mental murder'?" Denny spluttered in confusion.

Elizabeth giggled before replying, "What you've never imagined killing someone before when they're annoying you? Personally, I find it great as a relaxation technique. Really gets rid of my stress and stops me going off at them." Lizzie didn't like to yell – growing up in a noisy household, full of squawking and squealing girls will see to that. Instead, 'mental murder' and a good old fashioned bitching session with Charlotte was the preferred calming method.

A hiss followed by a small whimper indicated the snapping of Louisa's last nerve as she sent the PA into a flurry of disorganised terror – flinging magazines at the remaining staff before sprinting out of the meeting room in the direction of the nearest loos.

Lizzie felt a momentary pang of guilt and pity for the woman, and mentally moved the day of her resignation up to mid-week, before the cover of the magazine zapped her focus.

A large colour photograph sprawled across the glossy page. The headline read, "Football prodigy caught in party raid". Lizzie didn't watch much television, but the little she did wasn't wasted on football; however, she did recognise this man. Shaun Williams had been the cause of Kitty and Lydia's sudden infatuation with football last month and since then they had been perpetually begging their father to take them to a game. They didn't even understand it for heaven's sake!

Elizabeth, frankly, didn't see the attraction. Sure, he was kind of good-looking with his shaggy blonde hair and bright green eyes; and his body was attractive with its muscle and ridges and...muscle. Ok, so he was gorgeous, but Lizzie still didn't understand how women could be attracted to a man who was so clearly lacking in functioning brain cells. It just didn't make sense – how could you have a full relationship when the person you love doesn't understand three out of every four words you say?!?

Shaking herself from this inner rant, Lizzie forced her eyes to scan the top story of the day. Apparently (just as she suspected) this new footballing God was stupid enough to let himself be dragged to an illegal party where several, less than squeaky-clean, incidents had occurred.

When the police had arrived after a concerned call from a neighbour, two women and a boy about seventeen had been found unconscious, several people had been discovered jacking up on any number of drugs in the living room and the nation's brightest football star was in bed with three women – one of which was a minor.

Disgust was too milder word for the emotion Lizzie had towards the man on the magazine cover, as it showed him being escorted to a squad car by a burly policeman.

How thick was he?

To willingly go to one of these parties and ruin your career in one shot was not something that Lizzie was sympathetic too.

She had worked hard for her degrees and then even harder to secure a spot on a best-selling magazine like 'Fashion Weekly'. Now Lizzie was slogging her guts out for a job she hated in the hopes that an opportunity to escape to something better would present itself and save her from this hell-hole.

But even now as she "listened" to Louisa shouting about 'Hello' getting the scoop first, even now when all she wanted to do was quit and slap her boss, hard, on her way out the door, Lizzie knew she wouldn't simply because she need this job. Too much rested on it. No newspaper wanted a journalist who couldn't handle working on a gossip rag; no one in their right mind would offer an inexperienced newbie a job doing anything remotely close to what she dreamed of doing without proof that she could cut it and that what she wrote was worth reading.

This pit of doom was a chance (albeit a rather shitty one) to show the world what she could do; to show that Elizabeth Bennet was a force to be reckoned with.

Yes, she had worked hard her entire life – for everything she ever wanted or needed, Elizabeth had struggled. So to see some idiot get handed everything and then throw it away on something as stupid and irresponsible as this really grated on her.

"Elizabeth!" A bark from Louisa was worse than a Rottweiler's and Lizzie jumped accordingly.

"Miss Bennet, you will head the operation," her boss continued and Lizzie secretly wondered if Louisa had been watching James Bond movies again. Honestly, she made it sound like a bloody MI5 mission. "You are in charge of the team and I want _you _to do the interviewing. Of course, your team will have access to everything you should need – no questions asked. I want all the details from the court, I want interviews with lawyers and inside people and I want 'Fashion Weekly' to be first magazine on hand for any scandals or heart-to-hearts with the people involved."

Understanding and horror at Louisa's words began to filter through into Lizzie's brain.

"Wait! You want me to head a cover on the story? Going to court, digging up past discrepancies – that kind of thing?" Elizabeth exclaimed, her voice rising several octaves as she went on.

Louisa's cold stare indicated that she certainly did mean that _and_ that Elizabeth should be grateful for such a show of faith.

"But...why me?" She hadn't been here half as long as some of the people on her team and who had years more experience than her.

"My dear girl," Louisa began and Lizzie cringed at the patronizing tone she was using. "You have been whining since you got here that you wanted to do a more serious piece – and here is your chance. The interview in America wasn't exactly what we discussed but...it works."

Elizabeth's temper flared. Although - it _was_ a twisted attempt as praise she supposed. But she had not been 'whining' as Louisa so eloquently put it, she hadn't even meant for Louisa to overhear, much less comment; and anyway, Lizzie's idea of serious referred to current events, famine, war, politics – not some bimbo who could kick an inflated piece of leather around a patch of grass and had issues with the word 'no' (and couldn't keep it in his pants)!

Then again, she would have to sit with the rest of the press – maybe she would meet someone on a newspaper, maybe they could give her tips, possibly introduce her to people. This could be just the opportunity she needed to get out of here. She nodded stiffly to her boss to show her understanding, acceptance and the general kiss-ass attitude Louisa wished to see from her staff before sinking into her own thoughts.

Ok, so this was how she understood the situation.

Mission from the Bitch:

1) Find some dirt on bimbo-ball-boy.

2) Keep an eye out for developing scandals, hissy-fits and potential one-to-one interviews.

3) Get insider information – possibly from someone on the legal team.

4) Demonstrate leadership skills, show acceptance and deliverance of authority, proof of a good creative understanding, illustrate a refreshing blend of fact and entertainment and overall, exhibit general awesomeness to make herself irresistible to all other magazines and newspapers.

Alright, maybe Louisa didn't mention that last one – but it could be implied. Sort of.

Louisa wanted to get back at every magazine, tabloid and news station that got to this story first by getting the most freaking brilliant coverage of the court case. Therefore making it a good story would not only please Louisa, but would also serve to make Lizzie look amazing beyond all reasonable doubt.

Should be a piece of cake. In theory.

Yeah, right!

* * *

**AN: **Ok – so first chapter is fiiiiiinally finished. I'll be surprised if I have any readers left lol, but I really do appreciate every hit I get. I would love to hear what you think; please no flames though, they make me sad :(

I've already started the next chapter, but I'm moving into my house at Uni soon so I'm not sure how much time I will have to write in between packing and saying goodbye to my friends. Reviews make me go faster though ^o^ hehe. Virtual cupcake for each reviewer :D


	3. I Don't Feel Like Dancing!

**Author's Note: Hi, if you're reading this story...thank you! If you are a returning reader/have got a story alert on this (and actually remembered what the hell this is or decided to refresh your memory and read it again)...I bow down to your awesome patience. Thank you soooo much to everyone who reviewed, favourite and alerted this story – hope you all enjoyed your cupcakes ^o^**

**Absolutely epic fail on my part for the shitty updating schedule...or complete lack of it as the case may be; all I can offer in terms of excuses is that university and four jobs on the side is not easy, so I am very sorry for the wait – I hope you haven't all deserted me! I PROMISE that if I start a story that means I intend to finish it, mainly because I'll be completely irritated with myself until I do. **

**I write for me but I post for you, so sending me love makes me bounce around the room like a fangirl on sugar hehe. **

**Anyhoo...onwards!**

**Chapter Two: I Don't Feel Like Dancing**

Will Darcy, owner of Darcy International, slumped forwards onto his desk before proceeding to bang his head on it. Hard. Several times.

Today had not been good.

Meetings with clients had taken up most of his available time. And honestly, some of these people were idiots. Idiots with way too much money and heads full of their own importance. It almost made his ears bleed having to listen to their feeble concept of the law and how it should automatically be changed to suit their needs. Gah!

The rest of the day had been spent with the board in a meeting so dull Will had briefly considered throwing himself out of his office window. Until he realised that Charlie was too nice to run the company effectively and would lose all his money and would probably starve as a result, that Mrs Reynolds would miss him, and his sister...his sister would have lost her only remaining family and best friend – a point which sobered him up immediately and prompted him to 'throw' himself, if not whole-heartedly, at least rigorously into a debate about company policy.

Will was mid-way through his self-inflicted punishment when he was interrupted by the sound of the door to his overly fashionable office being opened. He looked up to watch as the messy head of blonde curls that belonged to his best friend and partner popped through the open door, closely followed by the rest of Charles Bingley. Quietly closing the door behind him, Charlie stopped dead in front of his friend's desk.

"Hey, cheer up Will, you should be happy – Old Man Biggle has been badgering us about the updated dress codes for months! Now he's _finally_ off our backs." Charlie cocked his blonde head to the side as the defeated face of his partner looked up at him.

Will looked exhausted which, as Charles thought, was nothing new – ever since he took control, _properly _took control of the company, he had been slowly wearing himself into the ground in order to restore the firm to its former glory.

However, defeat was a new emotion.

Will had always been passionate about the Law and rebuilding his father's company, but never had Charles seen his friend look so worn down in all the time he had known him. He found it rather unnerving – William Darcy was one of those people Charles' mother would lovingly refer to as 'one hell of a tough cookie', complete with cheek-pinch and all.

Straightening himself out, Will rolled his shoulders to loosen the sore muscles. Aware that his best friend was still staring at him with a such a look of concern as to make any number of mother hens proud, he plastered a smile on his somewhat temporarily unwilling face, before gesturing to the comfy chairs positioned in front of the desk that separated him from the door leading to freedom.

Charlie moved, although still slightly hesitantly, to sit down across from Will; continuing to gaze at him intently, as though waiting for some massive outburst from his partner.

"Charlie, be a dear and stop looking at me as if you're considering whether to put me on some sort of suicide watch," Will chirped cheerfully. Looking him in the eye Charlie snorted before rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I'm fine! We've been over this – I'm just tired right now, and having to deal with Biggle and the Board of Buffoons does not help matters. God, I can't _wait _for the day that they retire. You know, they are really dampening any chance we have of revitalizing this place by being so stuffy and boring." He slouched down into his chair and began picking at a loose thread on his cuff in frustration.

"If it makes you feel any better;" Charlie added hopefully, "Biggle and the rest will probably be dead soon anyway." Darcy snorted in amusement and quirked a brow at Charles.

Taking this as an opportunity to bring his friend out of the funk currently surrounding him, Charlie was quick to deliver the logic behind his outburst.

"No, really, just think about it! The old guy is refusing to budge from his position and he's been here since your Dad set this whole shbang up, and we know he's past the age of retirement because we both get the reminder every year from personnel; so, logically speaking, he must be about 70ish. And I'm pretty certain I once overheard him talking to the little fat, round one that sits at the end and nods at every word that comes out of your mouth, y'know...the one that actually _clapped_ last week...what'shisname...Dunn! Yeah, Robert Dunn! Anyway, I am almost one hundred per cent certain that I heard them talking, and Biggle mentioned that he had a dickey heart. So if you _really_, honestly think about it...it shouldn't take a lot to make him pop his clogs! Not that I'm suggesting we try, just that it would probably be bad if someone were to sneak up to him and shout 'Boo' or something. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to kill the guy...but maybe if we have someone give him a start or something he'll decide he's safer off at home and leave us in peace."

By the end of the explanation Charlie was looking thoughtful, and Darcy was laughing hard at an image of them dressed as ninjas and creeping up behind the old twit and giving him a fright on his way to the Boardroom.

Finding that they were both considering this too much to be completely healthy, the friends shook themselves out of their surprisingly uplifting daydreams of sabotage and cleared their throats.

"Anyway..." Charlie began, "I was just popping in to see if you remembered the Ball tonight? We did promise my Mother, apparently it's very important that we surface in society every once in a while, if only to dispel the rumours; she was quite offended last week when an old biddy from the club asked if I was in prison like 'that awful Lohan girl'. Personally, I like to make them wait for a bit – means you can get a bit more creative when explaining you're absence. I haven't used anything involving a shipwreck in a while, maybe..."

"Sorry to interrupt your plans to put your dear old Mum in an early grave, but I really don't think tonight is a great idea. I've got so much work to finish here; even more now, thanks to that stupid footballing prat! I think I should probably give this one a miss tonight ok?" Will looked beseechingly into Charlie's eyes as his friend scrutinized him from across the desk.

"Nope, sorry mate, but if I have to endure an evening full of women trying to palm their stuffy daughters off on me – then I'm bringing you down with me! You missed the last evening, and the one before – you owe me remember? Fancy leaving your best friend to be almost kidnapped by the resident Crazy Lady? Shame on you Darcy!"

Will chuckled, "As I distinctly remember Charles, you made no effort to extricate yourself from a potential night of nookie with a complete stranger until you realised that she was likely to tie you to the bed until you agreed to marry her; by which time, if you'll remember, you had already left me alone at the party to be handed round your Mother's group of friends like the latest Prada handbag."

"Ah, yes, forgot about that part...sorry again mate. My bad?" said Charlie, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly. Will snorted and rolled his eyes as a slightly pink hue spread over Charles' cheeks. "Hmm, anyway, will you come...please, please, please, pleaaase?" Charlie begged, clasping his hands together and batting his blonde eyelashes in his best puppy dog eyes.

Letting out a long sigh Will sagged into his chair, his eyes roving over his friend. He supposed he really should go; Charlie was right, they hadn't made an appearance in weeks and the company did gather a lot of business from the club – those old cronies were always suing someone. Gah! Club parties were always such a bore, there was never anyone interesting to talk to and the old friends of his parents only wanted to discuss the business and give him their 'advice' on being successful.

"Fine! I'll go, but..."

"Yes!" Charlie shouted, leaning back and punching his fist in the air.

"Oi, listen, I have some conditions for tonight – or I'll leave your sorry arse with the first available gold digger I find. Alright?" Will smirked as Charlie's celebrations ceased and he once again sat up to adopt what William called his 'negotiation face'. "Ok, first off – I'm not dancing tonight, no, not with anyone I mean it this time!" he said firmly as Charlie made to interrupt. "Secondly, I get to leave when I want too..."

"Oh now wait a minute, I won't force you to stay because I know how much you hate these nights – but can you promise me you'll stay for an hour at least? Mother will be so upset if you disappear too quickly."

Darcy let out a low growl and rubbed his tired eyes with the palm of a hand, "Fine, ok, whatever...but I reserve the right to leave whenever I want after that ."

"Sure," said Charlie, grinning broadly because he knew that (as a good guy) Will would find it impossible to leave the party once he arrived and saw how happy it made Mrs Bingley. 'It's his only flaw', thought his best friend, 'and if that's the extent of his flaws then he is a much better man than the rest of us'.

Rising from his chair, Charles stretched before moving towards the door of the office.

"Ok, I'll pick you up tonight – Mother has insisted that Caroline and I get a town car to the party. Of course, Caroline was all for a limousine but you know I can't stand those things. And don't worry, if you do decide to leave early, the driver can drop you off at home then come back to pick us up." Opening the door, Charlie slipped through only to double back for a second to add, "Oh, and Will, wear something extra nice, I think some of the women at the club have alerted the press about tonight's shin-dig. See you later!"

As the heavy door clicked shut, William groaned and slumped forwards on to his desk. If there was anything he hated more than parties and dressing up, it was the press. Coming from an influential and wealthy family had resulted in Will growing up under the near constant supervision of a gaggle of paparazzi. Thus, reporters in his mind were bugs that should be stomped on then squished into the dirt to make sure. Those fuckers were tough, have to be certain they're dead.

Sighing heavily, Will turned back to the huge mountain of work; if he was going out tonight he better get a move on with this – the last thing he needed was this pile to cause a small avalanche in the middle of his office.

Death by paperwork...literally.

Not appealing in the slightest.

**AN: **Ok, so it's a little shorter than the first but I was guessing that any readers I have left would rather have slightly smaller chapters, more regularly rather than one huge chapter every two years...ehem :/ sorry again!

Please review (even if it's just to tell me I need to update more...).

Toodles!


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